Did you know a baby cow can lick its own bottom, but a fully grown adult cow cant reach its rear? Fascinating. And indeed useful information. This is but one of many life lessons I have learnt since my return to the Emerald Isle. And here I was thinking I knew everything there was to know about Ireland, having spent a year immersed in its culture, surrounded by its cows.
I can also pass on to you the following recently learnt knowledge:

Lesson: Knitting is not like riding a bicycle.

Lesson: If one bus takes a corner at a certain speed - or velocity if you will - and a van travelling in the opposite direction at another certain vel-oc -ity attempt to pass said corner at equal times, the laws of vel-oc-ity - and also that guy who got hit on the head with an apple - dictate that said vehicles will collide. Therefore we can determine the following: Van plus Bus plus velocity squared equals Crash. I haven't just learnt this, Ive experienced it so Im sure my scientific equations are sound.

Lesson: Greece is where my soul belongs.

This last lesson learnt in the days shortly after my arrival back in Doolin. Days of rain and (runny) noses. After three weeks in 20degree sunshine and a constant supply of moussaka, I arrived back in my surrogate home in peak condition (despite the moussaka), tanned and gleaming like a Greek goddess. Only to spend the next two weeks sheltering from the constant rain, hovering under the kitchen lights and next to the gas stove, vainly trying to maintain my colour. I emerged from my re-initiation into Irish-dom a dull, pale, regular goddess with a hacking cough and multiple stove burns.

Actually I wish I'd written to you about the rest of my time in Greece. I could have told you about the sunsets (though couldnt tell you much about the sunrises) and the whitewashed towns of Santorini lit up by the setting sun, the golden beaches of Crete, the bustling markets in Athens. A two hour walk up a river, climbing waterfalls, passing whitewashed churches. Old women in scarves. And donkeys. Sometimes old women on donkeys. And Canadians everywhere - but not on donkeys (and not on old women).

And I should have told you about the food. In Greece they have oranges that taste like oranges, the tomatoes taste like tomatoes, the snozzberries taste like snozzberries. And greek yoghurt with honey, and frappes sweet with milk. (And it is at this point that I realize that Greece is less where my soul belongs as it is where my stomach belongs). I have tried to recreate such edible wonders but they always seem to be missing something - special Greek herb and spice, or secret Greek msg.

About a week after my return, my moral drowning in the wet weather, I had the brilliant idea of taking up knitting again. Starting anew, forgetting about that half a sweater I knitted 10 years ago that's probably still waiting in a box, in the dark, for someone to come and finish it. I hope you all feel very sorry for my abandoned sweater...all alone...and cold... and broken, unable to fix itself... Anyway, back to starting anew. I decided to stop by the wool shop in Galway to buy some fresh victim balls of wool to continue my cycle of wool knitting abuse and abandonment.

To get to Galway I take the bus. I get on at the normal stop and sit in my normal chair and look with my normal gloomy face out at the cows and everything's going just normal until something happens. Something abnormal. As the bus is slowly negotiating a narrow road I see this calf bend around and lick its arse. Okay. And then I swear, I saw the mummy cow next to it see this show of hygiene and try in vain to reach round to its own behind. It seems adult cows grow out of this sort of thing, rather the same way baby humans grow out of being able to hook their ankles around the back of their neck. And the look on its poor face, of failure and resentment was just enough to break my heart. (And its true, when I see a baby kicking its feet up around its ears I feel just the same way as that cow). And that my friends, is why cows have dirty bums.

So Im just reminiscing about being able to do the splits, when something else very abnormal happens. Probably more abnormal than the cow thing. Our bus crashes. Or rather it scrapes. Buses aren't s'posed to crash and they aren't s'posed to scrape. Thats why nobody wears their seat belt and why the drivers are so friendly. But it happened. And it was right under my window where the scrape with the van ocurred. To my shame I was slightly amused after it happened, as the drivers were swapping details. But it did freak me out a little when I thought about what might have happened had our bus had a fight with a truck or a petrol tanker rather than a measly van. And I sat on the other side on the way back (the side opposite to the side of death) and closer to the driver so I could keep an eye on him, make sure he wasnt drinking or reading comics.

I did get my wool. And I did try to knit. I knew you had to knit one and purl one but I couldnt remember what those words actually meant - I was sort of hoping my womanly instincts would kick in and I could whip up a new set of cushion covers. After much trial and error I got the groove going and now there is an abandoned scarf thing cowering in the corner of my room. Every now and then I hear its little cry for attention and I pick it up and give it another row or two just to keeps its false sense of hope up, then I discard it and throw some clothes over it so I dont have to look at it.

Lately, in an attempt to actually see some of the world outside my room (and escape the cries of that poor little deformed scarf -cries that echo in my dreams...), Ive taken to biking down to the coast and sitting on a rock to watch the sun set - I have a sunset rock. Or wandering the fields while I wait for the sun to go down. There's hardly ever anyone there so its incredibly peaceful, and Im left alone to contemplate life - and what Im going to have for supper when I get back. And on the bikeride home, in the half light of dusk, if I am very quiet.... and listen very carefully.... I can hear the most extraordinary, and ever so slightly frightening sound...of cows passing gas enmasse. Honest. Im usually deep in thought, on the brink of realizing my life's calling, or the answer to the mysteries of life itself when.. parp....pffttt... and then Im back to wondering if I really do like Cheddar better than Edam.

Somehow, for some disturbing subconscious reason that I do not wish to uncover this blog has turned into a commentary on the backsides of cows which I realize is information not beneficial to either one of us. Sorry bout that.

Hellooo? Is there anybody out there?

Corfu was my summer. And when I say summer I dont necessarily mean in terms of the weather (which incidentally was for the most part sunny - though still a little chilly at night) but in the sense that my time here felt like a 'real' holiday. A holiday from my holiday of boats and planes, cities and trains.

The good times were not to begin from the moment I set foot on the island however, for to fully appreciate the Corfu experience that was to come, I would first have to experience the opposite. (For this is the way of the universe). And when I say opposite I mean that this first experience of Corfu would turn out to be the antithesis of everything the word 'holiday' means to me. I might even go so far as to say (ominously), that it went against everything I believe in.....

It was rather a suprise to me of all people, to find myself on Corfu. I knew I was going to Greece, Id booked a bus ticket to the Italian port of Bari - but it was a whirlwind decision that brought me to Corfu in deckclass on an overnight ferry (thats chairs only for 11 hours incase you missed the flashing cue-sympathy-now light) rather than to Patras on a ferry in the luxury of a cabin with a bed and a pillow. I think it was just one of those things that happens when you're travelling - make a split second decision and end up in a place you never expected, somewhat suprised in spite of yourself.

As Id only a vague idea before leaving Italy that I might possibly be able to ferry to Corfu and so continue down the mainland passing through Meteora, I arrived in Corfu with no idea of what to expect and no accomodation. I guess if I were to dredge up some association with the word Corfu from my mind, if I had any preconceptions of a Greek island, the image would've held a beach, a few palmtrees, some quaint whitewashed houses, maybe a monkey or two, and little else - perhaps a freshwater oasis where I could quench my thirst should I get tired from playing with the monkeys.

And so maybe you can imagine my disappointment when after a night of fractured dreaming spent with my body wedged beneath an armrest in an attempt to stretch out, I arrived numb and bleary-eyed in... a city. No palm trees. No monkeys. No beach. And drizzle. Drizzle! Nobody told me it rains on Greek islands. I've never seen a picture of a Greek Island in the rain. But then going on that logic I guess if I really thought about it I'd have to admit I've never seen a picture of a Greek Island with monkeys either.

So disillusioned and glum I spent the obligatory half-hour wandering aimlessly around the port until I found a cafe and sat down to consider my options. If I ignored the urge to jump back on a boat and find an island with palmtrees and monkeys, I was basically left with two options of accomodation that met my budget. One good. One not so good. Unfortunately the good option was unavailable to answer the phone and so I rang the disconcertingly named Pink Palace and booked a bed. I was suprised when a woman appeared seconds later to whisk me away to my chosen accomodation, waiting and ready to pounce....

The first tiny jingling of an alarm bell began somewhere at the back of my brain when I saw the place. It is PINK. And it is BIG, sprawling down the base of a slope, edged by two giant pink buses.

The ringing intesified on entry to the pinkness when I was offered a shot of ouzo - pink of course (A little liquor to pacify? To dull a rebellious mind perhaps?).

A siren wailed when I was sat down to a 15minute speech on the rules and promotions (!) of the hostel.

A fog-horn sounded when I found myself seated at dinner surrounded by characters from the OC in their beachwear, eating traditional Greek camp-slop.

There was something disturbing about the place, something eerie about its location in the middle of nowhere, everything ready and available to you in one giant Pink Party House. Everything was controlled by reception and their pink ouzo - all one needed to do was hand over the cash and one need never leave....

It hit me once Id locked myself in my room as I sat listening to the drunken mating calls of the OC-ers as they surrounded the hostel: This isnt Corfu. This is Little America, with a few olives thrown in on top to create a poor illusion of Greek authenticity. That night I desperately rung my only other option, until finally someone answered and agreed to rescue me the next morning.

I unlocked my door and snuck out early while the night-creatures slept, hiking through the wilderness to the nearest bus-stop where I was picked up, arriving at Sunrock Hostel in time for breakfast. And no ordinary hostel breakfast: Omlettes, eggs, French toast or pancakes (also affectionately known as honey-fried balls as they really are nothing like pancakes and very much like honey fried balls). The family-run hostel sits over Pelekas beach and has a great common room/dining area, small rooms with bathrooms and balconies, and they serve dinner which actually tastes like real Greek food - probably because it is real Greek food.

As soon as I arrived I felt better. There were only three guests and not one of them was wearing a bikini to breakfast - a good sign. I was lucky enough to have the opportunity to join these 3 normally clothed people in hiring a car and we set off to see the island. If I hadnt had a chance to see Corfu in this way I would have come away with a completely different and limited experience of the island. As it was I got to see Greek life in action - albeit rather slow action. Fields of vines being worked by women in headscarves, olive groves, donkeys and their passengers, roadside shrines ever-lit by a tiny flame. We drove to the south of the island, climbing mountains (at least one) and stopping at beaches along the way, heading back only after sunset.

The next three days I spent hanging out at the beach during the day, hanging out at the hostel during the night. I went for two swims during my few days on Corfu. Thats one swim more that I went for during the whole of summer in Ireland.

It was reluctantly that I left Corfu for the mainland (not least because I was leaving at 5.30am), heading for Meteora and its famed cliff-top monasteries. Luckily it seemed not only Corfu was immersed in summer sunshine but the whole of Greece and the weather played nice for the rest my travels.

I arrived in Kalambaka with a friend met along the way, after a journey of many hours, in heat incongruable to carrying a 15kg pack and two other bags. I wish I had a donkey. Or a strong monkey. Kalambaka is the town that sits below Meteora, a surreal moonscape of weathered stone rising far above. We booked in to KokaRoka rooms at the base of the cliffs and I lazed away the afternoon preparing for the big climb ahead.

The next day I set off in the morning hoping to beat the heat. The track up was hard going, unreasonably stony and steep - again the need for a donkey presents itself. But I made it up on my own two legs and marvelled at the view before me. Meteora rises up seemingly out of nowhere in the middle of a vast valley. How the rock formations came about is not known but some people believe the area used to be covered by an ocean, and after a moonscape, Id say thats exactly what it looks like - an ocean-floor scape.

I made my way along the road that leads between the six monasteries built on the outcrops of stone that make up Meteora. Before the road was built monks were hauled up to the monasteries in nets or baskets. I cant imagine how they went about actually building the monasteries, most of which start right at the edge of the drop, leaving little room for a builder-monk to manuvoure.

I was disappointed to find at 10.30am that at least 6 coaches had beaten me up and were at the time releasing their throngs of tourists into the first monastery. See, if I had a donkey I could have woken up much earlier and slept on the way up, thus beating the crowds. Alas I was donkey-less and was thus forced to experience the serenity and sacredness of the monasteries with mobs of rowdy sightsee-ers. And all the while donning a most attractive and flattering elastic waistband skirt to hide my immodesty.

I made it to three of the six monasteries, saving the best, the Grand Meteoron til last. It was the most impressive in terms of size, and the balcony overhung with cherry blossoms, but also because it had real skulls in it - cool.

The next day we set out for Athens, hoping to board a train we were told was full but which we had been sold tickets to anyway. We met up with some people we had spoken to the evening before and waited for the train...which we were to find was indeed full. And so it was that we found ourselves, five adults or so it would appear, seated in the seatless yet unexpectedly comfortable in all its padded glory childrens play carriage. They really should make all the carriages this way. Each of the four walls and the floor is padded with mats and there are giant foam shapes to play with and everyone has to take their shoes off before getting in and if you pull my hair I'll tell my mum. We spent the trip playing cards with the only true child in there, a kid of about seven whose mother seemed somewhat wary of the company her child was keeping and kept walking past to peer through the window.

Six hours later and we arrived in Athens, worlds away from the slow paced island paradise of Corfu (and no donkeys to be seen) ready to explore the world that was ancient Greece.

So I find myself the other day lazing on a Greek beach in twentysomething degree heat, days away - worlds away even, from the European winterlands and I suddenly realize I have seriously neglected my duties as dedicated blogger - not to mention my duty as responsible daughter, granddaughter, friend, sister to all of you who I would expect are on your deathbeds with worry not knowing if I live or if I die between countries (pizza enduced heartattack perhaps?, fatal fall from 'titanic' pose at the head of the ferry maybe? But Im sure youve thought of them all).

And so here I find myself now, sorting memories from gelato-fuelled hallucinations to put your worried minds at ease.

I think last you saw me I was wandering the Cinque Terre.... After several days of beautiful weather walking between picturesque towns, I caught a ferry from Genova to Sardinia with visions of sundrenched beaches in my head. Dreams, mere dreams they were, as I was find after a torturous 10 hours on a heaving ferry. Yes, Sardinia has towns and traffic and stray animals and dodgy areas just like any other place. Well the town of Alghero does anyway - I cant speak for the rest of Sardinia as I really didnt see much of it at all. Because it was only AFTER stranding myself on the island that I decided to phone around discovering to my dismay that there was only one hostel open on the whole island. That hostel being the one I was at, a 15 minute bus trip out of Alghero which is really nothing too special anyway. Add to this the windy wet weather, and my uncanny ability to forget all about siesta time only to find myself in an empty town with no open food suppliers of any kind day after day, and you may gather that my time on this island wasnt exactly the idyllic experience I was after. (I seem to have this strange relationship with remote islands in that I am almost compulsively drawn to them, often to my detriment).

Infact I felt I did little more than wait. Wait for the weather to get better. Wait for the bus. Wait 4hours for the supermarket to open. After 4 days of waiting I could wait no more and resigned myself to leaving the island. In an attempt to make my journey from hell to the island worthwhile I caught the bus down to the southern port of Cagliari (two buses actually, after a memorable stranding in a town with a closed bus-station and townsfolk who knew nothing of buses) along a route that gave me a glimpse of the sort of experience Sardinia might be, if it were summer and if I had a tent and if the camping grounds were open, basically if I wasnt so stupidly illprepared and unorganized.

In Cagliari, the weather picked up and I spent a couple of days sight-seeing, visiting the famous torre d' elefan (or something which translated means Tower of the Elephant and which is famous for its elephant), spying on flamingoes and partaking in other similar animal based activities. The day I checked out of my room at 10.30am, I spent wandering a deserted beach in the drizzle, then bunking down in the supermarket entrance, waiting to board my ferry at 6.30pm. I waited for 8 hours that day. Is that not enough? No. I sat on a bench from 6.30pm where I could see the ferry arrive, and watch with growing emotion, the de-boarding of too many trucks and the boarding of too many new trucks for 4 hours. FOUR HOURS late the ferry left. All in all I waited a total of 12 hours. During my 5 days on Sardinia I calculate I may have waited as many as 2 of those days. It seems the universe is determined to teach me the virtue of patience. Or less teach so much as force me to succumb to the virtue of patience - insanity being the only alternative. I hope I have learnt my lesson.

Tired and impatient, I arrived the next afternoon in Napoli. I'd heard stories about this city. Horrible horrible stories. Stories featuring mopeds, and mobs of bedraggled children, cross-footpath traffic and piratical taxis, and the unfortunate traveller to Naples being trampled, maimed, snatched, overcharged by all of the above. I had visions of myself in all these situations, and with not one but three bags to hinder my movement and escape. So as I left the safety of the ferry I composed myself. Look crazy. Yes but not tooo crazy. Just enough to make anyone with less than honourable intentions to think twice, but not quite enough to be arrested for disturbing the peace. I am obviously rather convincing in such a role as I was neither arrested nor maimed. And on approaching a pedestrian for directions I was quickly approached by two more English speaking pedestrians offering their help (with the intention of actually aiding me, or rescuing my victim from 'the crazy lady' I do not know). My crazy lady persona went out the window a short time after when the rain started to come down forcing me to don my bright blue 'look at me Im a tourist' jacket - perfectly exceptable outdoor wear in Germany, but not so in fashion-conscious Italy. Anyway I made it to 6SmallRooms, the hostel that would end up being my refuge from the city for the next week.

Naples is a city that has to be experienced to be believed. Not that its is unbelievable, but more that its very hard to describe to anyone who hasnt been. Its dirty, its loud, it smells, but its also buzzing with energy. If I were to use a simile, thus proving my schooling wasnt for nothing, I might say that Naples is like a beehive. Or to use a metaphor that might be more appropriate in this case, Naples is a volcano waiting to erupt. The further in you go, the more intense the activity is. Buzzing and boiling and alive. And after a while this gets to you and you want nothing more that to crawl away and curl up in your safe little haven at 6SmallRooms - somewhere relaxed and removed from the hectic pace of life outside.
So thats Naples. Love it? Hate it? Cant decide.

In an attempt to remove myself from the city for a while I took a short excursion to Ischia island in the Bay of Naples, saw a few beaches, then headed back to the city.

From Naples to Bari, from Bari another damn ferry to Corfu. And thats all for today kids, tune in next time when we talk about GREECE, the number 5 and the letters G and D.

The woman opened her eyes as if she had felt my gaze through her eyelids and I glanced away quickly, pretending I'd actually been looking at something really interesting out the window all the while. Outside, sepia toned clusters nestled deep in the mountainous landscape go whizzing by, extraordinary and beautiful habitats - to my unaccustomed eyes.

The woman across from me is peering into her handmirror now, oblivious, uninterested in any but her own beauty. Satisfied, she leans back and closes her eyes again, allowing me to contemplate her freshly decorated face - ready to feign ignorance should she look up...

It's a weary face, tired and abused by the sun. Wine coloured eyeshadow (appropriate in this country of wine makers) settles in the creases of her eyelids. As I stare at her mouth which droops lazily to one side, she opens her eyes and so I shut mine just in time to obey the unspoken rule of all trains- never, ever, make eyecontact.

The train slows to a stop as we reach La Spezia and we, the woman with the droopy mouth and I, sit in silence as people disembark or board, each busy with their own life.

I look up only to find my own face under scrutiny from the woman with the weary face. She obediently looks away and I wonder what she thinks of my own undecorated face, a dirty hat holding back my unfashionably uncoloured, not to mention unwashed, hair. How very un-Italian.

The train splutters to life again and I start to prepare myself to get off at the next stop. I consider what lies ahead of me: a long awaited rendevous with the coast after three weeks landlocked in Germany. At least that is what I intend, though I've seen nothing of the ocean outside my window yet. But the sky is different over there and I think maybe it could be waiting for me just around the next bend. But before I catch a glimpse of what Im looking for the train enters a tunnel and my window becomes a black wall. Two minutes and still darkness. Then three and four. For all I know we could be passing the ocean right now.

For some reason I get nervous when I have to disembark a train. Maybe its something about those automatic doors and that gap that drops to the tracks. This eternal tunnel isnt helping settle my nerves. What if the tunnel never ends, the train never stops and Im forced to talk to the woman the weary face? And then, there is a flash of light and I catch a fleeting glimpse of pale blue, then another, and finally daylight and the long awaited sight of the ocean meeting the sky.

The train stops at my destination and hauling my pack on my back I manage to exit the train without getting stuck in the doors and dragged along side the train, or falling down into the abyss. And so, here I stand in Riomaggiore, at the gate way to the Cinque Terre, the 'Five Lands'.

The tiny trainstation sits high into the side of a cliff (that explains the tunnel). Far below the vast ocean slaps against the rock, a heaving momentum carried across miles and miles of wide open space. I walk through another tunnel to find the main street of Riomaggiore opening up to my left. And when I say main street I mean it only in comparison to the tiny town that rises high on either side of it. This is no High St or Queen St, more annonymous alleyway, or insignificant town square.

Pastel coloured buildings, four storeys high, line the street as it stretches up towards the mountains. High above me shutters swing free and local laundry moves in the breeze. I start climbing up the cobbled road, past a deli with a paint-palette of fruit outside the door, past a sign that says: ROOMS CAMERE ZIMMER' and another ... and another. All the way up the street signs like these (some with accompanying photo collages) vie for my attention (and my cash). I pass a group of old men, listening to them cackle and gabble like old women. They watch with no reservations as I walk to the door of La Dolce Vita accomodations. A woman chatting to a man in the doorway greets me with a 'BuonGiorno' and waits. 'l'Ostello questo?' I enquire, aware that this is possibly neither correct nor polite. I point at the floor to try to clarify my question. It works. She takes a key and beckons for me to follow. She understands. I can speak Italian. Either that or Im about to be locked away for my ignorance.

I walk behind her down the street, aware of how authenitically Italian she looks with her grey hair pulled back in a bun from a strong face, knee-length woollen skirt and sensible shoes. I do suppose women all over the world wear knee-length woollen skirts and sensible shoes at a certain age, but somehow they dont seem to make it look so.....Italian. We walk up two sets of marble stairs, through a door into a stifling heat and the strong smell of bleach, reassuring me that at least something has been cleaned. She shows me a room with three beds, sparten but clean. 'I need passport, you pay when you leave' and she's off down the stairs.

The heat in here is more than I can bear after dragging my pack round and working up a sweat, so I open the windows,and then the shutters, and peer down into the street below. The now familiar sound of an unfamiliar language greets me. Breathing in the cool air I listen and look. Across the street, a storey up, a night gown dances outside a window. I look around for undies (just out of curiosity understand) but it seems the locals hang their delicates indoors...

I head back outside, down the hill towards the sea and come to a piazza that seems so intimate I wonder if I might have wandered onto someone's property. But the only non-public spaces here are those of the verandahs high above and the doorsteps below. Narrow walkways and steep stairs wind in and out from the main street, leading from doorstep to doorstep. Looking down from the square whre I stand I get a view of the ocean stretching away to an empty horizon, and directly below, rows of brightly coloured dinghies, upturned, patiently awaiting their next voyage.

Behind me, the town of Riomaggiore slithers down a slope. Before me, the sea beckons and sighs.

A few weeks at Chateau de Radetz was just what I need to escape the unforgiving German winter. The place came equipped with built in 'mother' hence I was treated to luxuries far greater than I deserved. Gone were the days of dried pasta drowned in a German Dolmio equivalent, the days of lumpy creaky 5 foot dwarf beds. Between bouts of lounging and eating, Mary showed me the town, and the surrounding towns. Day trips to Heidlburg, France (just 'popped' over for a day...), snowy walks in the hills (with real snow!), flamkuchen (german pizza) and even skiing (on real snow!) gave me a better taste of Germany than I would have gained on my own.

The two weeks flew by, after which I left the comforts of 'home' and the German winter for a warmer climate in Italy. Excited to be heading to Italy once more, but reluctant to leave behind family and the luxury and kindness that come with.

I landed in Pisa and caught a train to Livorno where I was planning to stay. Why did I go to Livorno? My reasoning escapes me at this moment. But I can save you the trouble now and tell you its not worth it. Livorno is a dump. If I were to have consulted Lonely Planet I would have seen that under the heading of Livorno the words 'a bit of a dump' are actually used. But of course I didnt read that. I think after two weeks of ocean depravity, in a state of landlocked insanity, I just assumed that since it was near the coast it might be a nice place to spend the night. I was wrong. Things were not starting out well my second time in Italy. Until... I booked into the hostel, was shown the dorm room and a few minutes later upgraded to a private double room with bathroom and TV (albeit Italian TV) due to the fact the place was rather empty. It seemed my life of luxury was not yet over. Yes, things were looking up.

That is until I decided to catch the bus into the centre of town. After the 45minute trip I wandered aimlessly for a while, finding nothing and learning that Livorno is, as I have already stated a dump. So I caught the bus back. The wrong bus. Get off bus and at instructions of current bus drive catch the next bus. The next wrong bus. I consult the drive and am told, or rather mimed to(with two walking fingers) that he can drop me off close and I can walk on to the hostel. By this time it is dark and I am rather wary of walking around alone, in the dark, in a strange dump, but I have no other option so I disembark and follow the drivers pointed finger into the night. I saw lights in the distance and so walked nervously up the road to what seemed through the trees to resemble the hostel. Only to find it was some kind of Italian Mental Institution (the Italian words for Mental Institution escape me but they are very similar to the English equivalent). I will not deny I felt some panic at the prospect of finding myself on a dark isolated street in a strange dump of a town outside a Mental Institution. But common sense prevailed and I hurried past the high gate to the next visible building, which to my relief was the hostel.

That was the extent of my grand trip to Livorno. May it be a warning to all. The next day I hightailed it out of there to visit the misaligned wonder that is the Leaning Tower of Pisa. And suprisingly, I was impressed. Pisa had never been on my itinerary, it was merely the cheapest place to fly into from Frankfurt. I had preconceptions of tacky souvenirs and equally tacky tourists posing as if holding up the tower. And those preconceptions were all realized as I walked the sellers gauntlet past the green (perfect for posing on), through Piazza Miracoli towards the tower. But the buildings themselves are quite beautiful. The baptistry with its orange dome roof sits in the foreground, then the cathedral and poking round the far corner is the tower itself, everything in white marble, bright and clean against the immaculate green of the surrounding grass. The tower is fascinating. It seems to defy logic in the way it rises out of the ground at an angle. So though I highly reccomend you DO NOT go to Livorno, I can highly reccomend you DO take an afternoon to see the Leaning Tower.

If Id known of it before, I would have spent my first night in Italy in Lucca - the town I travelled to next through a Tuscan landscape of forest green hills dotted with siena roofs, along roads lined with olive trees. Lucca is a beautiful little town set with in a complete surrounding city wall. There's very little transport inside the walls so one is free to wander the narrow cobbled streets, and windowshop along the main street. Or, one could hire a bike and ride around the top of the 3km wall - if only 'one' had known before 'one' left the city.
But 'one' was destined for Riomaggiore, the first town of the Cinque Terre or 'Five Lands'....

Two and a half years ago, fresh from NZ on my first trip outside my country of birth, I stepped out of frankfurt airport and into a new world. As I took those first steps on foreign soil I felt something akin to debilitating panic take me over. Here I am in a strange land surrounded by strange people (of who I know nothing but for an unnatural obsession with cabbage and funny pants) who say strange things to me and who all think the same of me in return. How would I survive? And what if I had to go to the toilet??

Luckily, second time round, an experienced traveller by comparison, I landed in Dusseldorf armed with the German word for toilet, and thus was spared any feelings of culture shock as I caught a bus, then a taxi through the snow lined streets to Dusseldorf Backpackers.

It was at the hostel I first began to notice strange things...
1. The pillows were all big and square.
2. The lightswitches were all big and square.
3. The top of the glass doors would swing down towards you if you were silly enough to turn the handle more than exactly one quarter turn.

As I didnt recall any of these oddities from my first trip to Germany I at first put these down to the unique character of this hostel only. I was later to find these odd dimensions extended to nearly all pillow, lightswitch and door dimensions across the whole of Germany....

While in Dusseldorf, I did find time out frome examining interior fittings to indulge my artistic sensibilities at Dusseldorf's excellent K21 Contemporary art gallery. Where upon my inadequacies when it comes to the German language were exposed. It is one thing to ask for a ticket, quite another to enquire as to the state of the contemporary art scene in Germany and its current position in a post-post-modern world...

I spent half my time at the gallery exploring the works, and the other half of the time with my mind occupied by the 'click...click...click...click' of the gallery attendant's high-heels on the wooden floor behind me as she proceeded to follow me from one work to another. Eventually it became a sort of a game. I'd duck around a wall or down behind a sculpture and stifle giggles as her clicking footsteps became more and more frantic in her search for me, lest I start licking the paintings or straddling the sculptures. Theres nothing worse than the sound of high-heels when you are trying to consider the relevance of a resin leg protruding from a wall to the overall state of the modern world. It really should be mandatory for all gallery workers to wear slippers. Fluffy pink ones at that - then maybe theyd crack a smile once in a while (though I dont imagine a job that requires being in a constant state of painting -licker paranoia to be particularly 'happy' work).

I left Dusseldorf and its highheel weilding maniac behind the next day for the cathederal city of Koln, and the Station backpackers where all my lightswitch and pillow dimension suspicions were confirmed. Some may say I have a bad memory, but personally, I believe it more likely that over the last few years Germany has had a serious law reform regarding pillows, lightswitches and doors.

I set off shortly after arrival to view the world renowned cathederal, but what I was soon to find outside it was just as worthy of my attention. As I climbed the steps to the square surrounding the impressive Gothic building, a high pitched giggling arose from within a cluster of people across the way. I approached, intrigued, and caught a glimpse of something tan, something moving and wriggling and jiggling between the onlookers. I heard another explosion of giggles before I saw the source. A sack. No, a man in a giant sack. A giant laughing sack apparently. A button invited bemused passersby to stop and push, at which point the'sack' would break into howls of laughter, which would quickly spread infectiously around the onlookers (as is the nature of laughter). Laughter in itself is an absurd thing when you stop and think about it. And here was a man dressed in a giant sack with holes cut out for his eyes laughing for his living.
As I dragged myself away, feeling I should at least give the cathederal a look rather than stand around all afternoon laughing with a man in a sack, I was left wondering how he came up with the idea and whether he ever laughs on his time off...

The interior of the cathedral was beautiful in the peaceful way cathederals are, the dim light filtering through multicoloured stained glass high above. To the right of the entrance I spotted an entry for the bell tower. Ah yes, the promise of spectacular views and the feeling of being ontop of the world. But how I would soon come to regret ever laying eyes on that sign of pure evil.
I began my ascent of the stone spiral staircase in high spirits and counting the stairs as I went to satisfy my obsessive compulsive ways. Somewhere after 100 I lost count as my brain responsibly began to rank certain things slightly more important that counting. Little things, like maintaining an upright position, and breathing. Another hour (or so it seemed) and I was praying for an end to the dizzying spiral imprisonment. At one point, I'll admit, I considered turning around, but what if the end was just around the next bend? Or worse, what if everyone followed me and I deprived them of an experience that would be their best - or last? I couldnt have that on my conscience, so the only way was up. Finally, a light at the end of the tunnel and I emerged gasping into an open space, dragging my legs behind me and praying that my eyes did deceive me. I leaned against a wall and watched with a perverse sense of satisfaction as people behind me stumbled in, their expressions quickly changing from relief to undisguised horror as they too saw the staircase rising from the middle of the room. Here I was not alone in my suffering. I imagine perhaps this was used by the church as an ancient torture method for punishing the sinners. Send them up to ring the bells - if they made it back then God had forgiven them, if they perished then obviously their hearts were not pure.

Somehow by the will of God I made it up that final stairway to heaven to the bells and looking out over Koln I was rewarded with a glorious view of snow falling down on the city below. My first ever snowfall. It didnt seem to be settling, but not being experienced in the nature of such things, I did wonder if it might impede my exit from the tower, dooming me to a sinners death after all.

I made my way down with some difficulty, my jelly legs unwilling to offer me much support. I couldnt resist an inward smirk at the huffing puffing tourists on their way up, so innocent and unaware of the trials that lay ahead.
I later found out the staircase held 519 steps...I was one of the lucky ones.

That night I wandered the streets of Koln, which all oddly look the same. The same chain of clothing store, electrical appliances outlet, fast food restaurants on every street, their gaudy fluorescent signs serving to confuse me despite my 'straight ahead, no turning alowwed' street policy. A city full of German sausage lovers, Koln offered little of appeal to an anti-sausage campaigner such as myself. Determined not to help fund McDs quest for world domination, I instead settled for the equally u-German, and possibly equally-positioned-towards-world-domination Korean buffet.

Several greasy platefuls and one night later I caught a train to Manheim, from where I would be whisked away to Chateau Radetz, in the enigmatic town of Bohl-Iggelheim....

So here I find myself temporarily residing for the last week or so in Haggistown, the capital of the lovely Land of Haggis. Edinburgh (as it is known to the less immature), I can only describe as being grungily beautiful. The city is divided into the New Town and the Old Town (the Old Town being 'old' and the New Town, oddly enough being 'new', built to accomodate a growing population) between which run the Prince Street Gardens - once a stinking loch of human waste Im told, now a lovely place for a brisk stroll (just maybe dont be eating the dirt round here).

A mismatch of architectural styles, including but not restricted to Gothic, Classical, Contemporary and which also include other styles that might be Baroque or Renaissance or other things similarly old-sounding that I probably couldnt actually define even if I was forced to stand around in the Scottish winter wearing naught but a kilt and eat haggis. But there's a real sense of history here, and a beauty that is not quite pure with its steep stairways, age-stained stone and dark archways.

To which of these aspects (the grunge or the beauty) to place the phenomenon of a massive Australian invasion I can not say, but the first few days I was here, I didnt hear one Scottish accent....just that lovely twang of our dear cousins from the north.

I spent the first night in a hostel (or as some, namely me, might call it an Aussiehouse) on The Royal Mile - the road that rolls down the hill from where Edinburgh castle sits royally on a rocky throne of volcanic rock, overlooking the city. Then I moved to a place called Globetotters which is out of town near the bay and with its shop, kitchen, gym, movie room etc is really more like a hotel, or even a town that anything else. I must say Im getting just a little too comfortable here..

My second day I spent wandering with an artist's content through the four main art galleries of Edinburgh which are all free and therefore meet my budget (the castle at £10 did not meet my budget). The Portrait awards were amazing, and there were some interesting works at the Dean Modern Gallery, the rest as usual kindof all blended into one giant subtle-toned frilly-collared work I imagine might be called Portrait of Someone Royal holding StillLife in Landscape Somewhere Important.

Then after another day or so doing not much except watching helplessly as Edinburgh sucked away my NZ dollars, for some strange reason I decided to do a tour. I was a little apprehensive at first, imagining the worst to be a whisky guzzling, haggis-smearing, booze fest, but I shopped around and found a tour a little off the main backpacker radar that would take me to all the right places for not too wrong a price.

I was not to be disappointed. The tour was a 3day trek through the Highlands and the Isle of Skye run by Wild-inScotland. We set off on Saturday morning, a cosy group of only eight (maximum being 16), and I was relieved to see no obvious haggis-smearers nor obvious whiskey-guzzlers in the lineup. There was a couple from Singapore, an Aussie, two Srilankans, a Glasgowian and another KiwiChristchurchian. All in all a lovely bunch.

Our friendly tour guide drove our un-marked minivan through to Stirling on the first day, where we began our history lesson with the life and times of William Wallace (or Mel Gibson as some of us know him). From Stirling we made our way up the country in the shadow of the mighty Ben Nevis (highest mountain in Britain) and his neighbouring mountains to Signal Rock at Glencoe, the site of the chilling 1692 Glencoe Massacre (Signal Rock being where the signal was given for the English to massacre the town with no mercy).

From here we made our way further North following the Great Glen, past numerous picturesque lochs, learning more about the country, before arriving at our home for the next two nights in Plonkton.

Day two was by far my favourite as we took the Skye Bridge over the the Isle of Skye. The weather was just perfect (still frickin freezing but perfect) with blue skies and fluffy widdle clouds. We visited the main town of Portree for lunch then proceeded to one of my favourite places in the world...the Fairy Glen. The fairy glen is a valley is in the middle of nowhere, a number of grassy mounds surrounding a rocky fairy castle. From the top of the castle theres a great view of the landscape around, nothing but bare rolling land in greens and browns and yellows.

Now to the good part: the Brroownies. The 'Broownie' (roll that 'rrr') is Scotlands answer to the Irish leprechaun. a mischeivous little person with red hair who likes to run around in a kilt and resides here in the Fairy Glen. Rules for entering the Fairy Glen are: No hands in pockets (or the 'brroownies' think youre up to something), No swearing and No taking stuff. As we all know Ive had my fair share of bad luck with a certain Irish leprechaun and I was therefore fairly keen to stay out of this variations badbooks. It was a struggle in the near freezing conditions but I managed to keep my hands out of my pockets and left my notorious potty mouth back in the van. The way the winter evening light fell across the 'castle' sitting in the middle of a seeminly untouched natural landscape made the Fairy Glen a truly magical place.

With less than an hour of daylight left we made one last stop to catch the end of the sunset overlooking an area known as the Quiraing. A perfect end to a perfect day. Ahh.

Last day we headed back down the now icy country towards Edinburgh, past the totally scenic Eilean Donan Castle (complete with mirror reflection in the surrounding water) and on to the infamous LochNess. Where I unfortunately failed to see Nessie though I did take a few photos and Im pretty confident if I look closely enough he'll be there in the background waving a flipper.

I returned to the hostel in Edinburgh feeling energised, having seen a part of this country that cannot be described as anything but awesome - in the true sense of the word. Tomorrow when I leave for Germany I'll take with me a sense of Scotland's spirit and history, and a clearer sense of another small part of my own ancestry.

So herein begins my 'real' trip. Ireland was baby steps really. Now I head into the wild European yonder to sample indigenous delicacies and provoke the locals with my twangy Kiwi accent.

Last Monday I took the ferry from Dublin port to Holyhead in Wales. From Holyhead I caught the train to Bangor, and then the bus to Caernafon, and in doing so learnt that I get more sick travelling on ferries than I do on buses, more sick on buses than I do on planes, and less sick on trains than any other mode of transport. I was under the impression that a boat that can carry cars would have little roll-to, but the ocean is a powerful beast obviously.

Caernarfon is a quaint town built inside the walls of an impressive castle on the cost of Wales. Yes, a quaint town which unbeknownst to me at the time of visiting, was the quaint location for a quaint mugging of a good friend of mine. I didnt see any muggers, maybe they were disguised as quaint villagers, but I did feel a little like I was being watched by the locals.

I was suprised at how commonly the Welsh language is spoken here. At first I tried to blend in by speaking gobbledygook into my cellphone, which only seemed to draw more stares (not to mention a few rocks), so in the end I decided to stop pretending and embrace the tourist within - oversized map in one hand, both straps of my backpack securely tightened over my shoulders.

There's a certain freedom in letting go of ones inner tourist, and soon enough Id hung my camera round my neck and started walking slowly infront of the locals, stopping every now and then in the middle of the narrow footpaths to point and exclaim at a particularly curious food product or street sign, phonetically sounding out the welsh labelling in typical Kiwi twang. Incidentally, I found out early that if you say Caernafon as 'Carn-a-fon', you will get the authentic idiot tourist treatment. (Though I must say all my encounters with the Welsh proved them to be as friendly, if not more so than the Irish, which is saying something).

I stayed at the homely Totters hostel where I had a dorm room to myself - one of the advantages of travelling off-season. The hostess there was kind enough to give me some quick Welsh language tips. Incidentally again, Caernafon is correctly pronounced Ca-Narven. Of course it is.

Caernarfon Castle is worth the £4.75 entry. The middle is grassed over, but the structure itself has been restored and its possible to walk through the shell of the castle - through passage ways, along walls, up towers (guaranteed to give you jelly legs), imagining bumping into the Prince of Wales himself 'Oh how do you do? Lovely day, yes loovely day. Tea and scone your majesty?'.

After Caernarfon, I headed down the west coast taking the Sherpa route to Beddgelert (Beth-gelert) then Porthmaddog (Port-maddog) to give myself a glimpse of Snowdonia. No, not the amazing funpark it sounds like, but a mountain range. From Porthmaddog to Aberystwth (Aber-wrist-with), on a train that went around the coast and had beautiful views - atlantic ocean stretching out on one side, Welsh coutryside on the other. Then I jumped on a bus to Fishguard (Fish-guard...) - why? mostly because it has sufficent vowel sounds to satisfy my needs. On the bus I chatted to a Welsh woman (the bus ladies in Wales are rather friendlier than their Irish counterparts) who told me I HAD to go to St Davids, which was handy since I previously had NO idea where I was going, and it conveniently met the vowel-sound quota - as if it was just meant to be...

So after having caught four buses and two trains I arrived after dark in Fishguard where I stayed at Hamilton Backpackers Lodge, also homely, and run by the friendly and well travelled Steve.

The next day, I caught a bus to St Davids, hoping the lovely Welsh lady was actually lovely and not just of a different variety of the Irish bus-lady - but maybe one who lulls you into a false sense of loveliness with her Welsh charm, though who ultimately has the same goal - that goal of course being to make my life miserable. But thankfully she was genuinely lovely and had not pointed me to the national Welsh dumping grounds, but to a beautiful medieval little town, with a cathedral and a ruined Bishop's palace.

The bus ride itself did provide much Welsh scenery to be admired. We meandered along narrow roads lined with bare trees and down into valleys passing through tiny villages - just a few houses clustered here and there - and every now and then Id catch a glimpse of the coastline and the ocean beyond. I expect the area would be lovely in Summer, yet even at this time of year the landscape is dramatic for all its sparse ruggedness. Unfortunately when I did arrive at St Davids, there was a funeral on at the cathedral, and the ruins were under restoration, so I had to take a few un-intrusive photos from the outside.

The highlight of my day here though, was visiting Whitesands Bay, which (if you call 'less-brown' than everywhere else in the UK and Ireland 'white'), did have white sand - and waves, just like home. In either direction from Whitesands, there is a coastal walk that stretches around the entire South-Western Welsh coast. I followed my guidebooks advice and walked 40 minutes or so in the bitter cold wind to the St David peninsula. I saw hardly anyone else as I walked, another advantage of travelling off-season. A disadvantage being the way the season turns every path to mush, leaving your new, probably innappropriate suede converse boots looking not so new at all.

Once used as a fort, you can still see the remains of a guarding stone wall, and Neolithic stone circle huts on the rocky outcrop known as St Davids head, beyond which the ocean stretches out endlessly and un-scarred by any land at all. The day was overcast and wild and as with Irish landscapes, you can feel the history in Wales, like there are ghosts on the wind... The feeling remains the same though the ground surface itself varies - here in Wales an endless blanket of olive green is interspersed with blue grey rock and rusty orange bracken. In places like this I remember I love being by the coast and in the middle of nowhere. I feel like I could walk forever, the chilled seabreeze and the surrounding nature energising me. Its the road that makes my feet ache and numbs my brain.

And yet it was the road I reluctantly took back, unwilling to sacrifice my new shoes to the hungry bog the rain had left behind in place of the walking tracks through the fields. Luckily I had chocolate onhand. Thats the great thing about walking, carrying around half a block of chocolate wrapped in foil and being completely justified in eating a square at a time...or a half-block at a time.. for energy reasons only...

I was aching when I arrived back at Hamilton Backpackers after more walking than Ive done in months. But it was a good ache, worth while to have explored another little corner of the world.
THE END
(NB Ive chosen to describe the days events in a most lady-like way, resisting the urge to make some comment about squatting on St Davids head, so you'll just have to make your own rude jokes).

POSTSCRIPT
Just to rush through the last few days before I turn into a computer:
From Fishguard, I then travelled to Cardiff where my ever-so gracious hosts Winston and Patrice showed me the city and let me lay my weary head on their couch. Highlights being Cardiff Bay, and as always, teasing Winston..
Cardiff Bay is great, with some really stunning architecture. Cardiff city itself is not unlike Dublin in that it doesnt feel very big. It also, strangely, has a Hamilton-esque vibe about it (but dont let that put you off).

After Cardiff, I caught the expensive train to Milton Keynes where the equally ever-so gracious host Lex (and co-host Ian) let me lay my weary head on THEIR couch. Highlights included the royal school tour, the royal pub tour,Oxford, and Lexes mysteriously shrinking trousers...

On the day that Lex and all other responsible humanbeings went back to work (Monday), I went to Oxford. Oxford really is impressive. It has way too much history for my history-repellent brain to handle, but even just visually its impressive. Its packed with immense college buildings, museums, spires, posh accents and students whizzing about on their bikes.

Today, leaving behind good friends in both the Land of Gobbledygook, and the Land of Tea and Scones, I caught an early train to Edinburgh (which you'll find in the Land of Haggis). And I will tell you all about it soon - but only if you are good and eat all your greens tonight. A vegetarian always knows...

Top 10 resolutions I swear I will keep:

1. Eat less chocolate

2. Dont kid self about eating less chocolate

3. Do something crazy: Get a tattoo? Pierce an eyelid? Grow a beard?

4. Say yes to anything that isnt agains my morals... (thanks to friend who forgets giving me this one, or making it herself)

5. Dont forget about Doolin

6. Buy a surfboard (ie. stop being a wuss and brave the 'summer' Atlantic)

7. Resist buying icecream when weather is cold enough to require the wearing of gloves...broke this one already this year...but.... starting now...no, I meant starting... now.

8. Give more - I have enough.

9. Think of one more to make ten.

10. Plan my 2006/7 campaign against the making of resolutions - no one ever keeps them, its just a world of broken promises....